


Little Man Hannibal

by kmo



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Kindergarten & Pre-school, Everybody Lives, Gen, babby hannibal, wine mom bedelia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-13 06:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7965682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal is the brightest pupil at Chesapeake Country Day kindergarten and Bedelia is his exasperated (but loving) mother. Will he ever make a friend?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Petronia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petronia/gifts).



> Loosely inspired by [this adorable fanart by eliosu](http://eliosu.tumblr.com/post/149370420169/hannibal-babies-and-their-parents). Petronia/genufa wanted fic about mommy!Bedelia and babby!Hannibal and I wanted it, too.

“He’s a child, Bedelia,” her mother tells her somewhere between her second and third high ball of the afternoon. “Not one of your psychological experiments. I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

Bedelia sips at her gin and tonic coolly, eyes drifting over toward Hannibal as he observes a monarch butterfly folding and unfolding its wings on her late summer roses, quiet as a church mouse. “He’s no ordinary little boy, Mother. He’s a genius.”

Bedelia’s mother chuckles dryly to herself and takes a drag of her cigarette. She really wishes mother wouldn’t smoke. “Everyone thinks their kid’s a genius. Your father thought _you_ were at that age.”

Bedelia bristles at the implication she somehow isn’t now. “Your point?”

“You go to Lithuania for a conference and return home with some ragamuffin boy and expect me to consider him my grandson.” Her mother stabs out her cigarette on the Sèvres porcelain saucer Bedelia has provided with a vengeance. “Do we even know who his people are?”

“I’m having a private detective look into it.”

“Really, Birdie, I don’t know what to think,” she says, using the nickname Bedelia has always hated. “What am I going to tell everyone at the yacht club?”

“I would have thought you’d have been pleased, Mother, considering you have done nothing but nag me about having children since I crossed the threshold of adulthood.”

“I would have been pleased had you married someone off the social register and had a child with _him_ , someone with breeding and class.” She downs the last of her martini in a single gulp and begins picking at the olive. “I was always afraid you were going to get broody one day and turn to one of those vulgar _sperm banks_ ,” Mrs. Du Maurier says with a shudder.

Bedelia feels two bright dots of color flame in her cheeks. Only her mother could ruffle her typically marble-like composure. “I know better than to breed. Unlike some of us,” she mutters into her drink.

Hannibal bounds over with a bouquet of hydrangeas, interrupting the brewing quarrel. “For you, Grandmother.”

Mrs. Du Maurier receives the flowers with a slight grunt of acknowledgement. She proceeds to appraise the boy as if she were looking at a piece of horseflesh, talking about him as if he wasn’t there. “He’s a handsome child. At least you did right there.”

“Would you like another martini, Grandmother?” Hannibal asks, very sweetly.

“Indeed I would, young man.”

Hannibal deftly pours the gin into her empty glass, adding just a splash of vermouth, exactly the way her mother likes it. He presents it to her with aplomb. “Stir, never shake. Bruises the gin,” he says. “Mommy taught me.”

“Good boy.” Mrs. Du Maurier sips, making an impressed smacking sound as her lips taste that first drop of gin. She sighs and turns to her daughter. “I suppose he is not entirely without potential.”

*

Bedelia sits uncomfortably in the principal’s office of Hannibal’s school, the hard plastic of the chair digging in through the delicate silk of her skirt. She is trying very hard not to show her obvious contempt for the entire proceedings.

Ms. Bloom, Hannibal’s teacher, begins softly, hiding the pill of what she is about to say in a bucket’s worth of jam. “Hannibal is an exceptional child. His mathematical and artistic abilities place him light years ahead of his peers. But we are concerned about his social development.”

“Your son assaulted two of his classmates today, Dr. Du Maurier,” Principal Chilton says flatly, refusing to mince words. “He knocked poor Franklyn Froideveaux down on the ground and was bludgeoning Tobias Budge with a stuffed reindeer when Mr. Brown, our janitor, finally pulled them apart.”

She would have liked to have said she was surprised, but Bedelia has always known that socialization was going to prove a challenge for Hannibal. “What provoked this?”

“I believe Franklyn was trying to give him some cheese. He was only trying to be Hannibal’s friend,” Ms. Bloom says, her porcelain doll face a picture of honeyed concern.

“Well, perhaps Hannibal found young Mr. Froideveaux’s attentions bothersome,” she says, inwardly wincing to discover she has become the type of mother who will default to defending her child as a lioness does her cub.

“Be that as it may, it does not excuse Hannibal’s behavior.” Chilton steeples his hands, signaling that he is about to say something pompous. “Dr. Du Maurier, we at Chesapeake Country Day pride ourselves in providing a rich and well-rounded curriculum suited to each individual child’s needs. We welcome extraordinary young minds like Hannibal’s. But if your son cannot control his anger appropriately you may have to consider another plan for his education. After all, we are not the public school system.”

“I see,” Bedelia says through thinned lips, gathering her purse and closing it with a snap. “Now if you will excuse me, we have a _Mommy and Me_ harpsichord lesson at three o’clock.”

Bedelia strides down the hall, Ferragamo pumps clicking on the tile floors. She hears Ms. Bloom scrambling to catch up with her, the rubber soles of her flats squeaking, but she makes no attempt to slow down.

“Dr. Du Maurier, wait!”

Bedelia relents. She slows her pace and admires the artwork hanging in the hallway. Crayoned drawings lined up in a row, stick figure representations of mothers and fathers and dogs and cats, houses with triangle roofs and square walls in primary colors. All childish variations on a theme until she comes to Hannibal’s—Botticelli-inflected and shaded in charcoal with her and Hannibal’s faces superimposed over the Madonna and Child. She smiles a little to herself, tiny ember of maternal pride flickering in her breast.

“We thought he had traced it at first,” his teacher says. “He really is gifted. Frankly, I’m not sure I really understand him—I’ve never had a pupil like him. I know he’s bored, but you have to believe me that kindergarten is the best place for him. No matter how bright Hannibal is, he still needs to learn to make friends.”

“I have always known it would be a difficult transition for him,” Bedelia says. “And I know very little about his past.” There were hidden traumas there waiting to be excavated, she is sure of it.

“Can I show you something?” Ms. Bloom asks, taking Bedelia by the arm. She guides her to a window looking out over the playground. The children are all running and playing together—swinging on the swings, playing hopscotch and tag and jumping rope. All except Hannibal, who is sitting off by himself, building a sculpture out of leaves and pebbles, his Harris tweed trousers and starched white shirt immaculate. It reminds her of how she had found him in the orphanage, neglected and alone. He is a strange little boy and she is a strange woman. Bedelia feels an odd pain shoot through her heart; Hannibal’s loneliness has become her own.

“Why doesn’t he have anyone to play with?” she asks.

“He looks down on the other children for not being as smart as he is. Heck, he looks down on _me_ ,” Alana Bloom admits. “They’re a little afraid of him. Especially after today.”

Bedelia touches the glass, wishing she could somehow get through to him. A feeling claws at her throat, one she recognizes as helplessness. “He needs a friend.”

*

They sit down to dinner later that night. Hannibal drapes his napkin across his lap as if her dining table was a Michelin-starred restaurant. He eyes her plate then his own and frowns. “Why don’t I have any fois gras?” he asks.

Bedelia narrows her eyes and pours herself a generous glass of pinot gris. “Little boys who cannot control their temper do not get fois gras. If you behave like a child, I will treat you like a child, Hannibal.”

His tiny fists grip his flatware tightly and he looks back at her, stung at this indignity, and she knows she has chosen the appropriate punishment.

“Continue to fight at school and I’ll feed you Spaghetti-Os for a week.”

Hannibal looks back at her aghast. His bottom lip trembles and he spears his plank-grilled salmon murderously.

“Why were you fighting with those boys, anyway? Ms. Bloom told me they were only trying to be your friend.”

“I don’t want to be their friend.”

“Why?” Bedelia asks, genuinely curious.

Hannibal grows thoughtful. Really, she would swear he was a fifty-year-old man trapped in a five-year-old’s body. “Franklyn is too clingy. And Tobias is too mean. I want someone…like me.”

“Someone worthy of your friendship.”

He nods back at her and continues to take dainty savoring bites of the fish. Somehow her Lithuanian orphan came to her with perfect Continental-style table manners and the tastes of a gourmand. “I have friends,” he says. “You’re my friend.”

His warm guileless eyes threaten to break her heart. “I’m your _mother_ , Hannibal.”

He cocks his head to the side. “You can’t be friends with your mother?”

“Well, yes, technically you can be…”

“Are you friends with Grandmother?” he asks curiously, interrupting.

“No, I can’t say we are,” she says, wondering how on earth he had managed to turn the conversational tables on her. “I love you, Hannibal, and I love spending time with you, but you need to make friends your own age.”

He grows quiet. “But you don’t have any friends. You have patients. And me.”

Bedelia lays aside her fork and takes a large swill of wine. “We are not here to talk about me,” she says, defaulting to therapist-mode when pressed. “Now if you have finished your supper, it’s time for bed.”

“But I wanted to practice my Bach…”

“No Bach for you tonight, mister. You’re having an early bedtime for the rest of the week.”

Hannibal tosses his napkin on the table and marches off to his bedroom in a huff. It’s the first time she’s ever had to punish him and she nearly relents after about two minutes. But Bedelia knows that if she shows weakness now, Hannibal will walk all over her for the rest of his life. She clears the table and puts the plates and glasses in the dishwasher. As an afterthought, she pours herself a second glass of wine—after the day she’s had, she deserves it.

She carries her glass down the hall to Hannibal’s bedroom to find that Hannibal has already tucked himself into bed and turned the lights off. He refuses her offer of a bedtime story and squirms away, pressing his face against the pillow, when she attempts to kiss him goodnight. His childish rejection wounds her, piercing a place in her heart she was unaware she had left unguarded.

Bedelia would like to believe Hannibal will forgive her in the morning, but she is not so sure.

*

“Mommy!” a sharp cry pierces Bedelia’s sleep, waking her with a start. Bedelia blinks open her eyes to see Hannibal shadowed in the doorway, dragging his little plaid security blanket behind him like a train.

“What is it, sweetheart?” she asks groggily, fumbling for the bedside light.

“Bad dream,” he says, eyes wide and frightened.

“Come here." Bedelia turns down the coverlet and opens her arms. Hannibal climbs into bed and snuggles beside her. His forehead is warm and his little heart still beating too fast. It had been a challenge to get Hannibal to sleep in his “big boy” bed. The first few months after he had left Lithuania, he had refused to be parted from her, day or night. Nightmares were frequent. She knows she should not indulge him, but he needs her and she longs to undo the hurt she caused him before.

“Was it a Mischa dream?” she asks, stroking the fine soft hairs covering his forehead.

He nods silently and snuggles closer. She still did not know who Mischa was; Hannibal uttered the name during his nightmares, but would not tell her any more.

Bedelia shuts off the light and soothes Hannibal to sleep. In the moonlight, his chubby cheeks and long eyelashes look cherubic—it is impossible to imagine him hurting anyone. His fat child’s fingers grasp for the silk strap of her nightdress and she is awash in a flood of tenderness. Her mother wasn’t wrong. She had planned to raise Hannibal according to the best research of her colleagues in the field of child development. She had seen herself in the role of guardian or mentor—observing Hannibal’s growth and nurturing his unique abilities. She had never envisioned herself as  _Mommy_ , nor expected to be seized by such a fierce and powerful love for the boy.

Hannibal sleeps in her arms, untroubled for now. That familiar helpless feeling claws at her throat again. If she had known how vulnerable motherhood would make her feel, she doubts she would ever have embarked on it in the first place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chesapeake Country Day gets a new pupil and Hannibal makes a new friend.

Hannibal sits at the art table absorbed in his latest masterpiece: a portrait of his mother. The medium leaves something to be desired, as he generally prefers charcoal and pastels to macaroni and construction paper. Still, he likes the way the slender ridges of the penne approximate the gentle wave in his mother’s blonde hair and is considering using elbow macaroni for the wispy curls toward the ends. For her eyes, he has chosen iridescent blue glitter; it shifts in the light from bright to cool, just like changeable nature of his real Mommy’s eyes.

His mommy really is the most beautiful mommy in the entire school, the entire _state_ , and she deserves a macaroni portrait worthy of her likeness.

He sneers at the other children with parents and brothers and sisters made of jagged colored paper and glittery wagon wheels. Some of them like Brian Zeller seem more interested in _eating_ the glue rather than making art with it. He can’t help but snigger a little to himself. _Pigs_.

Jimmy Price reaches over and plunges his grimy hands into Hannibal’s neatly ordered pile of macaroni.

“Put that back!” he shouts. “That’s mine.”

“I need some,” Jimmy says. “Stop hogging it, Hannibal. You need to share.”

“Yeah, you need to share,” Brian says between mouthfuls of paste.

Hannibal attempts to grab the pile back from Jimmy. Brian leaps into the fray, causing a three-way tug of war over the macaroni. The tussle with each other, and in the melee, Hannibal’s portrait gets knocked to the ground. Glitter spills everywhere, a sparkling blue and pink rain shower.

Hannibal drops to the floor. There is a dirty sneaker print over Mommy’s face and one of them stepped on her golden penne hair, breaking it. A tear leaks down his face; he had wanted to show it to her, even if it was stupid macaroni. She would have been so proud.

“Oh look, he’s crying,” Brian says. “What a baby.”

Hannibal’s face turns red, furious. He has the sudden urge to tackle Brian to the ground, like a hyena bringing down a gazelle. But he remembers what Mommy told him about fighting and what to do when others made him angry. He closes his eyes and counts to ten, trying to take big, deep breaths like she had taught him. When he is finished, he turns away without acknowledging the other boys and hides himself in the cloakroom, closing the door.

He finds his red leather satchel inside his cubbyhole and searches in the small front compartment for the talisman Mommy had given him. It’s a watery blue and teal Hermés scarf—she had let him pick one, her bureau drawer overflowing like a rainbow of silk. It’s cool and beautiful and he likes to rub his face against it and twirl it through his fingers. Most importantly, it still smells like Mommy—the sweet and spicy scents of jasmine and cardamom and vanilla from her perfume. It helps him feel like she is there with him at school. He knows she is at home working, only a short drive away, but sometimes it feels so very far and he misses her.

He tucks himself in the corner and spreads the scarf out on his lap, petting it like it is some kind of silky couture snake. He feels better already. But the heat of his rage has only cooled into an iron-hard desire for revenge. Jimmy and Brian must pay for their rudeness. The trick of it would be how to get away with it.

He had been reckless last time with Franklyn and Tobias. He will not be reckless again.

*

After snack, Ms. Bloom calls him up to her desk. She is simple, but has nice manners and is very pretty, and so he likes her.

“You were very good this morning, Hannibal. You didn’t lose your temper around Jimmy and Brian,” she says, warm voice full of praise.

Hannibal flashes his most winning smile back at her, the one that made old ladies want to pinch his round cheeks and call him “adorable.”

“How about a sticker?” Ms. Bloom offers, drawing out a brightly colored sheet of Scratch and Sniff.

He selects a bright red cherry one and pins it to his waistcoat with pride. It smells atrocious and full of chemicals, like scented marker, but he knows it will make the others squirm with envy. Scratch and Sniff are the most prized stickers offered in Ms. Bloom’s class and only bestowed on rare occasions.

“I have a special job for you. Would you be willing to help me out?”

Hannibal’s ears perk up at the word _special_. Perhaps his teacher had at last come to appreciate his unique abilities. “What is it?”

“There’s a new student joining the class tomorrow—Will Graham. He’s transferring in from Quantico Elementary. Would you show him around? He’s a very nice boy, very sensitive. I think you two could be friends.”

“It would be my pleasure, Ms. Bloom,” Hannibal says, giving her a neat little bow.

*

The next morning, Hannibal leaps out of bed before Mommy can wake him, his whole little body tingling with excitement. _Will_. He has thought of nothing else since he spoke to Ms. Bloom yesterday. He could not fall asleep even after Mommy read him two bedtime stories. It was better than Christmas, for today was the day he will make his first real friend.

Hannibal strides in to his cavernous walk-in closet, like Pinocchio swallowed by the whale, studiously scrutinizing which outfit will most impress Will. The red and green plaid suit is by far his favorite, but Mommy has told him it is “bespoke” and therefore not suitable for classroom wear. The other kindergarteners find his bow ties and tweed vests strange; Brian always asked him if he had gotten lost on his way to church. Hannibal frowns; he wants to show Will his true self, but he doesn’t want to start off on the wrong foot. In the end, Hannibal opts for the most casual attire he owns—tan khakis and a salmon-colored cashmere sweater.

(Mommy had once presented him with a pair of Osh-Kosh overalls early on in their relationship; it had ended in tears for both of them.)

He combs his hair neatly and brushes his teeth and is patiently waiting at the breakfast table when Mommy finally bestirs herself and swans down the hallway in her marabou slippers and satin dressing gown.

She fixes them both a soft-boiled egg and toast, which is acceptable, but not the kind of lavish meal Hannibal longs for. On the weekends, they make brunch together—eggs benedict, bagels and lox, champagne cocktails for her and sparkling grape juice for him. Mommy puts on old bossa nova records and they pretend they are sitting in a café alongside Copacabana Beach.

(“Brunch is like church for our people,” she had told him once.)

“You’re awfully cheerful this morning, Hannibal. What’s gotten into you?” Mommy asks.

“Will Graham is coming to school today. He’s going to be my friend,” he tells her eagerly.

Her perfectly sculpted brow arches northward. “Oh? But you haven’t even met him yet.”

A tiny fissure of doubt breaks open in Hannibal’s mind. “He will be worthy of my friendship.”

Mommy opens her mouth and closes it without saying any words—like she had wanted to say something but thought the better of it. Instead she just pats his hand sympathetically and turns her attention back to her newspaper.

*

It is a magical and very promising first day.

After Will Graham is dropped off at precisely 8:15 on the dot by his adopted father, Mr. Crawford, Hannibal smoothly whisks him away from the curious gazes of Jimmy and Brian, and proceeds to give him the Cook’s Tour of Ms. Bloom’s classroom. They start in the cloakroom, where Hannibal shows him the special hook and the cubbyhole that has been set aside just for him.

Will has dark curly hair that falls into his bright eyes and glasses with silvery-grey plastic frames. His clothes are plain, but clean, and show no evidence of the stains or rips that would make Hannibal dismiss him as a candidate for friendship. His backpack has a dog on it and his shirt has a dog on it, too. Hannibal can see dog hairs of several different colors littering Will’s coat.

“You have a dog?” Hannibal asks him, as if it were not obvious.

“Five dogs,” Will answers, perking up and forgetting his shyness. “But I want more.”

Hannibal can hardly imagine Mommy allowing him one pet, much less _five_. “How many more? Two?”

“More than that.”

“Ten?” Hannibal hazards.

Will shrugs. “What’s more than a hundred?”

“Infinity,” Hannibal suggests. “A number without end.” Mommy had taught him that.

“Infinity dogs would be good,” Will says.

Hannibal isn’t sure _infinity_ _dogs_ would be practical or pleasant, but he files the information away in his burgeoning memory palace as one of Will’s favorite things.

He takes Will by the hand and leads him out into the classroom, showing him the art table, the reading corner, the computer station, the tiny kitchen where sometimes he likes to play chef, and the teal carpet where they have circle time. Will is very quiet throughout all of this and avoids making eye contact with the other children, hiding behind his curls or staring at his sneakers. Hannibal interprets this as a sign of Will’s heightened sensitivity and it makes him seem even more precious to him.

“What would you like to do?” Hannibal asks.

“’Dunno,” Will says, eyes unable to reach Hannibal’s face.

Hannibal guides him over to the sand and water table. “We could design something together.” He picks up the red pail and shovel. “Like a castle. Or a cathedral.” Will’s face falls and Hannibal can tell he is losing interest. “Or…a doghouse?”

“Okay,” Will agrees. “And I’ll make a dog to go in the doghouse.”

Though Hannibal has never made something as pedestrian as a doghouse before, he is confident in his sand sculpting abilities; he once spent the better part of a day crafting the baptistery of Santa Maria della Fiore from memory. It is not very challenging and not his best work, but he will do anything to win Will’s friendship. In the end, the two of them make a dog, a doghouse, a bone for the dog, and a little water dish they fill with actual water.

“This is my design.” Will beams over the dog-shaped lump he has created. Will swears it’s a Labrador, but Hannibal thinks it looks more like a very sick cat.

Hannibal smiles back, momentarily blinded by the blush of pride in Will’s cheeks. A tiny bell chimes. “That means it’s time for snack.”

Will’s face falls and his big blue eyes well up with tears. “Oh. I…I didn’t bring any. I think my dad forgot.”

If Will tells Ms. Bloom, he will have to eat the school snack—orange slices or the bizarre concoction she calls “ants on a log.” Hannibal won’t have Will eating such gruel. He sits Will down at one of the tables and says, “Don’t worry. You can have some of mine.”

Hannibal dashes off to his cubby and retrieves his bento box before Will has a chance to protest. He flicks open the lid and slides himself over onto Will’s seat so they can both share the cloth napkin Mommy has provided. Inside is a bunny made out of rice with sesame seed eyes and a carrot nose, and cherry tomatoes that have been carved to look like tulips.

Will peers inside. “It’s too fancy to eat.”

“Nonsense,” Hannibal says, popping a tomato into Will’s mouth.

Will chews. “It’s good,” he says, between bites. They will have to work on his table manners. “My dad usually just makes me PB&J.”

After snack is finished, Hannibal asks, voice quiet and low, “Will you be my friend—my _best_ friend, Will?”

“I’m not sure,” Will answers.

“Why not?”

“Because I just met you. And…well…I don’t find you that interesting,” he says, quite honestly.

Hannibal shuts his bento box with a loud snap. “You will,” he promises.

*

Bedelia finds Hannibal sitting at her desk, surrounded by wadded up balls of her extraordinarily expensive imported stationary. He has snipped off the gold embossed monogram of one of the sheets and is coloring a picture of a dog.

“Hannibal, what are you doing? You have your own paper and your own desk. It’s very rude to take Mommy’s things without asking,” she tells him, words coming out sharper than she intended. The ecru-white with the navy and gold border really is her favorite.

“I’m making a picture for Will,” he says without looking up, continuing to work on his drawing. “My paper wasn’t good enough.”

 _Will_. There had been much talk of Will lately. Will’s favorite foods and favorite colors and favorite toys. Hannibal had spoken so frequently and rapturously about Will, Bedelia had felt compelled to call Ms. Bloom to confirm that the boy actually _did_ exist and wasn’t the imaginary friend that lonely children like Hannibal were prone to inventing.

_“No, Will’s quite real.”_

_“It seems Hannibal has found a friend at last.”_

_“Well, yes,” Alana had said. “But I’m just concerned Hannibal’s interest in Will is a bit…”_

_“Obsessive?”_

_“Bingo.”_

Hannibal sets aside his colored pencil and looks up at her. “Can we have a dog?”

“A dog?” Bedelia imagines mud splattered on her pristine white carpet and thick black dog hair dusting the davenport; it makes her woozy. A cat or a fish she might learn to tolerate, but a _dog?_   “Why?”

“Will likes dogs.”

“Of course.”

“If we had one, he might want to come over and play with me.”

The longing in Hannibal’s voice tugs at her heart, threatens to topple her over and weaken her resolve in one fell swoop. “You don’t think he would come over to play otherwise?”

Hannibal shrugs, a little sadly.

“Well, have you asked him over to play?”

“No,” he says and she senses it, a fear of rejection.

“Would you like me to call Will’s father and ask?”

Hannibal’s eyes turn big and bright, lit up like tiny sparklers from within. “Would you, Mommy? Please?”

“Okay. I’ll call Mr. Crawford after dinner. Saturday is supposed to be a nice day; perhaps we could go to the park or the zoo.”

Hannibal wraps his arms around her, clutches her tightly; she’s never seen him this happy before. “I love you, Mommy.”

Bedelia feels her heart swell to bursting, a love that makes her feel both powerful and powerless at once. “I love you, too.” She really does.

She’s curious to meet the boy who could make Hannibal hunger for friendship in this way. And she is frightened, too, of what might happen should Will not sate that hunger.

*

On Friday, after the class returns from recess, they are greeted with a strange and horrifying sight.

Tufts of red fur scattered like rose petals litter the tiled floor. A Tickle Me Elmo is laid out, corpse-like; the art table is his funeral bier. Various implements protrude from Elmo’s chest and stomach—a ruler, a paintbrush, righty and lefty scissors. He’ll never be tickled again.

Some of the girls turn away, frightened to see such violence enacted on the cute and helpless toy. And some of the boys lean forward to get a better look at the stuffed animal’s inner workings, the way its white stuffing protrudes like cotton intestines. Jimmy Price bursts into tears and buries himself in the folds of Ms. Bloom’s denim skirt. He works himself up into such a state of hysterics that he must be sent to the nurse. It is his Elmo, brought in for Show and Tell.

Hannibal hangs back, face impassive, revealing nothing. Inside he smiles, veins humming, savoring the sweet satisfaction of a dish best served cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely kudos and comments on the first chapter. I am slow to update, but I have a lot of fun writing this story--it's a fun sandbox to play in! Next time: Will and Hannibal's first playdate and the kindergarten is terrorized by the Chesapeake Country Day Ripper.


End file.
